


A Series of Heartbeats

by celli



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: First Time, M/M, arthur knew, merry_merthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/pseuds/celli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>   Maybe he’d stopped believing that he could be caught. Or maybe he’d just spent too much time saving Arthur, and couldn’t imagine a life doing otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Series of Heartbeats

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Shell for the beta. :) Written for heavenlyxbodies for the Merry_Merthur challenge.

Looking back on it later, it all seemed to happen in a series of heartbeats: the door to Arthur’s quarters opening, the gleam of the axe in the firelight as the stranger swung it, Arthur’s look of naked fear as he lay bleeding on the floor.

Merlin’s tray clattered to the floor as he threw out his hands, and the next heartbeat was a second crash as the stranger, axe and all, flew forward and through the window.

Merlin barely heard the fading scream and the thud from the courtyard, because he was already on his knees next to Arthur. He took a deep breath and, through will as much as magic, healed the slash across his side with a few whispered words. He reached for Arthur’s head, which was dripping blood, but Arthur snapped a hand out to stop him.

“Merlin!”

“Let me—“

“People are _coming_!” Arthur said, and shoved Merlin back on his heels when Merlin tried to ignore him.

“What—“ Merlin started, but the room was suddenly full of servants, guards, and eventually Gaius, whose expression clearly telegraphed the conversation they were about to have. He did manage to block Arthur from the crowd long enough for Merlin to heal the head wound, at least partially, and then banished Merlin from the room with a jerk of the head.

As Merlin weaved his way down the hall, trying to sort out what had happened and what he should do, he could hear the footsteps of the King behind him. “Someone get me the head of the guard! How was this allowed to happen within my kingdom, within my castle walls? I want answers, and I want whoever is responsible!”

Merlin went straight to his room, stripping his bloody clothes off and crawling under the covers. He shouldn’t. He should put on his other set of clothes. He should wash the blood—Arthur’s blood—that had dried on his hands and was pulling the skin tight. He should pack his book and his few other things and head for the bolt hole in the outer wall he’d been keeping safe since the last time Uther had ordered a sorcerer’s death. Instead, he pulled the blanket tighter over his face. The moment just before he’d acted hung frozen behind his eyelids. The axe, the blood, Arthur’s _face_. Merlin tried to push it away, to frighten himself with the sound of the King’s voice instead, and the way the flames and smoke had seemed to fill the entire courtyard during the last execution, but he couldn’t hold on to the fear. Maybe he’d been living in Camelot too long, keeping his secret and working magic when no one was looking. Maybe he’d stopped believing that he could be caught. Or maybe--Arthur’s face again--maybe he’d just spent too much time saving Arthur, and couldn’t imagine a life doing otherwise.

 _How many years have I been doing this?_ he thought. _How many times have I saved him without revealing anything?_ Whether “anything” was his magic or his feelings for Arthur, his muddled brain couldn’t provide.

Merlin stayed there until the air around his face started to feel stale. Then he crawled out, washed the most obvious of the blood off, and dressed himself with slightly more care than usual. If he wasn’t going to run—and apparently he wasn’t—he wasn’t going to be caught naked and humiliated.

 _That will have to wait until after they’ve caught and tortured and sentenced you_ , a voice in the back of his mind said. Merlin ignored it, or tried to.

He sat at the table in Gaius’s quarters, staring fixedly at his clasped hands, and waited. And waited. Just when he was starting to wonder if he should go look for someone to arrest him, the door opened. Merlin got to his feet, all the adrenaline surging back, as Sir Leon entered the room.

“Prince Arthur would like to see you,” the knight said, and turned to leave.

“Not—the King?” Merlin blurted.

Sir Leon turned back to him. “No,” he said, a hint of impatience breaking through his stoic exterior. “The Prince. He’s in the guest chambers while they fix his window; Gaius is trying to keep him quiet so he can recover. His Highness is asking for you every few minutes.”

Merlin followed Sir Leon silently, his brain whirling with possibilities. Perhaps Arthur didn’t remember. He’d had a head wound, after all. Or in the confusion, maybe he thought he’d done it himself. That was it. Merlin began mentally crafting the story, complete with enough heroism that Arthur would whole-heartedly believe it of himself. He’d heard noises and burst into the room. Arthur, of course, had been fighting bare-handedly—valiantly!—despite the cuts to his arms and legs and the (lesser) blow to his head. A feint, a few grunts, and then Arthur had pivoted and thrown the attacker out the window. Camelot-trained strength and cunning had won out over the outside world yet again. Merlin practically had himself believing it as he walked along. Honestly, Arthur probably _could_ pull that off with just a bit of luck.

He came to a halt unnoticed behind Sir Leon. Or was the situation entirely different? Was Gaius trying to keep Arthur quiet so Merlin could escape? Did Arthur somehow—Merlin’s breath caught in his throat—did he suspect Gaius? Would he—

Merlin broke into a trot and ducked past Sir Leon as they approached Arthur’s temporary quarters. He entered with his hands fisted at his side, ready for anything.

Anything, though, was Arthur lying propped up on some pillows, pale but awake, and Gaius in a chair next to the bed reading quietly. Merlin came to a stop in front of the bed, his eyes darting between each of them.

“Merlin, finally,” Gaius said. He closed his book and stood. “I must report to the King.” From the tone in his voice, Merlin could imagine the mood the King was still in. “I trust you can tend to the Prince?”

“I believe that’s his job,” Arthur said, his voice quieter than usual but still sharp. “Which he is being delinquent at, as usual. He was probably napping in a pile of hay somewhere while I was bleeding all over the floor.”

“I was not!” Merlin snapped, offended, then remembered the situation. “I mean, I’m here to help, Your Highness.”

“Good.” Gaius brushed by Merlin on his way out of the room. “You and I are going to have a long talk about accidental defenestration, and any number of other things, young man,” he said under his breath.

Merlin smiled weakly.

The door closed behind Gaius, and Merlin looked back at the bed. Time to start his story.

“So—“ he started.

“Merlin, shut your mouth and get over here,” Arthur said.

So much for that chance, then. Merlin stood next to the bed, taking a moment from his panic and confusion to make sure Arthur actually was all right. His head wound was mere bruising now instead of the swelling and bleeding Merlin had healed, and the minor wounds he hadn’t touched were carefully bandaged. In all, Arthur looked better than he had on many previous occasions.

And then he opened his mouth and said, “You may be a brilliant sorcerer, but you’re rubbish at being subtle,” and Merlin’s knees went out from under him.

He dropped into the chair Gaius had vacated. “I don’t—“ Merlin searched desperately for a thought, a plan, some option besides bolting for the door. “Try to remember you’ve just had a blow to the head, Arthur. I’m sure you don’t know what you’re suggesting. A sorcerer? Me? I’m the castle idiot, remember? Incapable of the most basic tasks? Not blessed with the intelligence of--”

“I have wanted to say that to you for so long.” Arthur even sounded pompous half-dead. It was a very irritating trait of his, Merlin thought at random. “I mean, really, Merlin. Trying to heal me in front of half the castle. What were you thinking?”

Merlin started to talk, but Arthur was definitely on a roll. “Not that you’ve ever had a care for the fact that your life is on the line every time you cast a spell. No, you just trot about the kingdom, turning bathwater warm and cleaning things with your mind, never mind that if you just put your back into it you wouldn’t be violating a royal edict—“

“You know, sometimes I save your life by being magic!” Merlin said, and then choked at the realization that he had _said it_. Out loud.

“I can take care of myself,” Arthur said.

Merlin reached across him and poked him in his bruise.

“Hey!” Arthur grabbed Merlin’s hand, which froze Merlin in place, stretched out awkwardly over him. Merlin braced his free hand next to Arthur’s shoulder to keep from falling across him. He stared down at him; the pallor in his cheeks had been replaced with a slight flush.

“It’s my duty to take care of you,” Merlin said.

“It’s not your duty to die for me.”

Merlin half-laughed, and wriggled his arm in Arthur’s grasp, although Arthur didn’t let go. “It is, actually.”

“It’s _not_.”

Arthur was warm and solid underneath him, his color rapidly returning, and Merlin thought of him on the floor a few short hours earlier, bleeding and desperate. “You can’t die,” he said simply. “Whatever I have to do, you have to—“

Arthur jerked on the wrist he was still holding, and Merlin’s other hand slid out from under him, planting him solidly on top of Arthur’s chest. He started to protest, but then Arthur raised his head and mashed their lips together, and it came out in a surprised sort of grunt.

Any sane person would have jerked away, demanded an explanation, and possibly slapped Arthur’s face like a frightened maiden. Which was, of course, why Merlin closed his eyes and tilted his head, changing the awkward brush of mouths into a real kiss.

Arthur made a pained noise and dragged Merlin closer. Merlin tried to kiss him carefully, and keep his weight away from him. But Arthur was having none of it, and kissed him as if he was dying to kiss him. As if he’d wanted this as long as Merlin had—from the moment they’d faced each other over a goblet of poisoned wine, or the moment they’d lain awkwardly opposite each other in Merlin’s childhood home, or the moment that they’d seen each other, future master and magician, in the courtyard of Camelot.

Merlin let Arthur win the battle of wills. When he lifted his head to breathe—and to look down at Arthur, to make sure this was actually happening and not some kind of strange dream—Arthur’s blankets were tangled around their feet, Merlin’s shirt had been half-unfastened and dragged partway down one arm, and—“Arthur.” Merlin sat up and tugged at one of Arthur’s sleeves, where blood had started to seep through.

“It’s fine,” Arthur said, trying to finish pulling Merlin’s shirt off. “I’ve had worse—“

Merlin put his hand on Arthur’s arm and said the spell, for once not bothering to be quiet about it. Arthur went still beneath him.

“What?”

Arthur gestured at Merlin’s face.

“Oh.” Merlin lifted his hand from the healing wound and tapped his temple. “I know they look a little—“

“Gold,” Arthur said in a raspy voice that sent chills down Merlin’s back.

“So I’m told,” he said unsteadily.

Arthur shivered once, sharply, under Merlin’s hands.

Merlin threw out a hand and hissed out a spell without looking; there was a clatter as the door locked itself, and a whoosh as the banked fire flared up. He kept his eyes on Arthur the whole time, and didn’t miss the hitch in his breathing when the magic took effect.

“Don’t think this means you can just use magic whenever you—you want to,” Arthur said.

Merlin waved a hand, and his shirt unbuttoned itself and slid the rest of the way off. “Only when absolutely necessary, I swear.”

"Liar," Arthur said, and pulled Merlin down into another kiss.


End file.
